"Eh, my masters," replied he, "’tis not to be beaten in all Yorkshire for good sport--trout, dace, chub, and even the lordly salmon; and as for t’old castle--well, ’tis said that spooks be about. Leastwise I never care to go yonder missen, for strange noises affright the whole countryside!" "Oh!" I ejaculated. "And is that so?" "Ay, young sir. With the disappearance of Sir Owen, the owner of Holwick, after the taking of the castle some two-and-twenty years ago by the malignants--and a curse be on ’em all--Sir Owen was last seen fighting his way through the rebel foot. They say he was killed, and his body buried in the dry moat by the rebels; and ever since that time we often hear most fearsome cries and noises." When we had arranged for a few days’ stay, a serving man led our horses away, and we entered the best room of the place. It was an oak-panelled, wainscoted room, with a low, smoke-grimed ceiling that was traversed by a massive beam. The floor was paved with large stones, while an ingle nook and settle imparted a cheerful aspect to the apartment. But what attracted my attention most was a mattock and a couple of spades, with the rich red clay still sticking to them, lying in a corner of the room. "Is our host a gravedigger as well as an innkeeper?" asked Drake, his eye following the glance I gave at the implements. "Nay, Greville, it means that we are forestalled; someone is already at work here." "Who?" "I’ll wager ’tis none other than that villain Increase Joyce." "Ho, landlord!" shouted Felgate, in a voice that sounded like the bellowing of a bull. Our host soon appeared, cringing and bowing like the menial that he was. "Where is the man that uses these things?" I demanded, pointing to the spades and mattock. Our host, taken aback, stammered some inaudible reply. "Speak up, man!" I commanded sternly. "’Tis but a king’s officer making a survey of the castle." "King’s officer, forsooth! Now, listen! As you value your hide, answer truly. We are king’s officers; he is an arrant rogue and villain. For aught I know you may be his accomplice. Now, where is he?" "He rode off this morning to Selby." "And he returns----?" "Sir, I know not--on my honour!" Whether the man lied or not I could not tell. His crafty face was expressionless. "Now, listen, sirrah! Say not one word that we are here, but directly he returns let us know. Fail us, or play us false, and you’ll answer to the king’s justices at York." The landlord, thoroughly cowed, promised compliance, and we withdrew to a remote room to await events. Twilight was drawing in as the sound of horse’s hoofs was heard on the hard road. We made our way to a window where we could overlook the front of the inn, and the horseman proved without doubt to be the rogue Joyce, though he was arrayed more gaily than of yore, and a close-trimmed beard hid the lower part of his face.